


Won In Fight

by rhia474



Series: Herald and Lion [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Drama, F/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 10:55:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3765502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhia474/pseuds/rhia474
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Haven is attacked by an unknown force, the Commander has to face a decision that puts everything into a new light.</p><p> </p><p>“The enemy is right here; they already overran us,” she says, more for the sake of the rest of the Council than for Cullen. He knows that she knows: she has a quick mind, suited for far-reaching plans and strategies, able to see the wheels behind the wheels and implications behind actions.</p><p><i> She would have made such a brilliant officer </i> , Cullen thinks. <i> Definitely high command. Her men would have followed her everywhere, to the death, even…</i></p><p><i> And that’s just it. </i> It echoes in his mind like the toll of the Chantry bell, deep, resonant and full of finality.</p><p> </p><p>  <i> Such a waste. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Won In Fight

**Author's Note:**

> ****
> 
>  
> 
> **I am playing around with the events as laid out in the game slightly, as well as dialogue choices and exact phrasing—as normally with my fics, I intend to remain close to the spirit and not merely provide an expanded script. Also, I wanted to show Cullen in action. Because reasons. Also, I can’t seem to stop writing Varric and Cullen dialogs, old war buddies vibes and all.**  
>   

**Won In Fight**

 

 

 _Ne dred thee nought_  
_I have thee sought_  
_Bothen day and night_  
_To haven thee_  
_Well is me_  
_I have thee wonnen in fight_

_\--Love Me Broughte, 14 th century English, from John Grimestone's Commonplace book (MS. Advocates' 18.7.21., National Library of Scotland) --_

 

The Chantry is full of scared, packed-in individuals, the scent of incense and candles is almost completely overwhelmed by the stink of sweat and fear. The cacophony of voices drowns out the Sisters’ slow murmur of prayers by the Andraste statue’s feet.

 _War is ugly even when it’s fought out there on the battlefield_ , Cullen thinks, _let alone when it strikes a town full of civilians who just a few hours ago were celebrating what they thought was an end to the largest of their fears._

“Not exactly the best moment in history, huh?” Varric says, appearing at his elbow. “It definitely reminds me of the last time you and I were thrown together under similar circumstances.” Cullen grunts as the dwarf nods towards the altar. “Same sounds, same smells, even: and apparently, we’re going up against mages again. Will this shit never end?”

“You tell me.” Cullen watches as the rows of supplicants part between him and the statue, allowing the person kneeling directly in front of Andraste’s feet to walk through. “Just this morning we were all full of hope.”

“I hear you, Curly.” Varric shoulders his crossbow. “But don’t quite give up just yet. Just like back in Kirkwall, we again have a guardian angel to rely on.”

“And apparently yet again, you exaggerate, Master Tethras.” Roxanne Trevelyan is pale, but composed, as always. She finishes buckling her left gauntlet into place; a faint green glow emanates from her palm where the Mark still pulses, evoking memories of how she closed up the Rift over the ruins of the Temple last night. “Our hope should be in Him who preserved us this far.”

It does not sound trite from her mouth, or oft-used, the way it does in so many pious sermons. The people around her, the scared, injured, trembling people of Haven, Cullen sees, take notice of her words, her calm, almost serene face, the way her armor gleams even in the scarce candlelight. Arms reach out, try to touch her arms, sides, even feet, as if hoping that whatever is suffusing her with such terrible certainty would make their plight easier to bear.

“Commander: what would you have of me?” she asks, Fade-green eyes seeking his. “I understand that the enemy is way too close for comfort, and that there is hardly an opportunity for negotiations: Cassandra shared the scout reports with me.” She bows her head slightly towards the ex-Seeker who is moving up to her side now, just as battle-ready as her. “Could those trebuchets of yours be put to use, should an experienced small group ventured out and secured them for the operators?”

She speaks just as calmly and clearly as they were standing at some fancy Orlesian _soiree_ sipping from crystal goblets and nibbling delicacies. Cullen glimpses an appreciative smile on the face of the Orlesian court mage, Vivianne:  of course she notices the tone as well. Composure above all: and Cullen would even believe that this is Roxanne Trevelyan’s true demeanor has he not seen so many other facets of her in the near past. It almost makes him dizzy to remember.

_Just a week ago, this same woman, holding a broken young man in her arms, listening to him babble about his lady love that he’ll never see again: the Herald herself found her remains on the Hinterlands and brought her personal effects back to him. She bends her head as his grief-stricken and tear-smeared face slowly hits her shoulder at last and great sobs heave his chest: green eyes closed, her own expression is that of shared grief over two lives that would never unite in this world._

_Just two days ago, this same woman, kneeling in the Chantry garden, with dirt smudged all over her cheeks as she tries to wrestle a particularly heavy planter to a new place to make sure her elfroots get more sunlight, brows drawn, lips slightly parted and tip of tongue sticking out between them in concentration. She wipes a hand across her face as she looks up at him, and her deep sigh and blossoming smile tell him just how happy she is at that moment._

_Just a day ago this same woman, crawling forward on her knees, straining, left hand thrust forward, lips moving in words of the Chant first silently, then rising, rising, above the shrieks of demons and the hiss of the Fade itself though the green glow of the Breach._

_Maker, my enemies are abundant._  
_Many are those who rise up against me._  
_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_  
_Should they set themselves against me._

_Just an hour ago this same woman, standing outside the Chantry, looking over the crowds celebrating the closing of the Breach. She holds a tiny bunch of late-blooming wildflowers in her hand that one of the little girls working in the Chantry garden thrust in her hand when they returned from the Temple, triumphant. She laughs out loud with a slight and very Orlesian shrug of her shoulder, tucking one of the yellow blooms behind her ear. There is uproar of approval from the crowd, a thunder of applause and cheer, and she bows, face turning sincere again, hand raised to her heart and then reaching out towards the crowd._

Cullen sways. His insides are the familiar mess of churning, nausea-inducing emotions like always before battle with magic, made worse without the clarity of lyrium. The headache is a constant reminder behind his eyelashes now, his tongue is dry, his fingertips are numb and the fact that he would give his left foot for a tankard of ale right now alone should tell him just how bad shape he’s in.

“Commander?” Roxanne says, a bit louder, and he blinks at her. “A moment to share battle plans, then?” he hears her saying, taking his arm and drawing him aside, away from the crowd and Varric and Cassandra and the others, to a quieter corner of the transept where a couple of Templars stand, conferring. They straighten, salute and withdraw as soon as they spot them. Her gauntleted hand is strong and steady on his arm, as it is always when she fights: no shakes or sign of weakness anywhere, just a slight frown of concern as she leans towards him.

“Cullen?” She calls him by his name, now: the way she fastidiously distinguishes between their public and private talks normally fills him with a slight awe.  It also helps with breaking himself out of the haze of pain somewhat. “Any details on the enemy numbers especially the advance troops? I would need to know what we face so I can decide if we should be mage-heavy or if Cassandra should be supported by Varric or the Bull.” She frowns. “I shall try to get those trebuchets defended as best as we can, so everyone can…”

“Of course, Herald,” he finally grinds out, choking down bile: he can feel the oppressive cloud of so _much_ magic bearing down on their little town. Templar training and abilities do not slip away easily, and decades of lyrium in his system ebb away very slowly, making this all the more hard. “Forgive me. Roxanne.” He reaches up to rub the back of his neck: the scar there is tingling too, just like the one on his lip, the other memory of Kirkwall. “Let’s see: as far as…”

“Oh, _bother_ ,” she says just then, looking at him with completely changed expression and her eyes widen. “Am I being an arse? Do you …Cullen, are you _all right_?”

And he can only shake his head, and hiss, face growing taut and cold as the blood rushes out, and know that this is about the point when all the rest of their recently allied Templars should feel it too: he still claims the dubious title of the most senior here with any experience with blood magic and thus his senses are more attuned to high concentrations of active magic.

“Too. Much. Magic,” he grinds out, one hand up as he sways and finds one of the columns for support. The marble is cool even under his gloved fingertips, just like Roxanne’s gauntlet under his shoulder, bearing him up with the same wiry strength she uses to wield her greatsword. From the corner of his eye he can see a couple of the older Templars  staggering a bit too, and although it does not exactly fills him with satisfaction or relief, it is good to know that it’s not withdrawal symptoms rendering him practically invalid.

_Well, not entirely, anyway._

“You need to get out there and make sure those trebuchets are firing, damn it,” he hears himself from far away. “Their crews will be the first ones to face the enemy; they are way exposed out there. I don’t care who you take, as long as those bastards feel it.” Propriety be damned, he glares at her as if she was one of his lieutenants and hisses. “You understand?”

“Perfectly, _Ser_!” She does turn out a strappy salute, he must admit and through the haze of pain Cullen feels that absurd surge of pride rise up again around his heart as The Herald slams a fist on her breastplate and bows. There is no doubt that she’s a born warrior: that ferocious grin on her face chases away any doubt, also pushing the upwell of nausea away enough so that he can straighten and organize his features to a less contorted expression of pain. “You hold here; we shall be back.” There’s a hard, fast squeeze on his shoulder, then Roxanne spins on her heel and walks away, tone sharp as she raises her voice. “Cassandra, change of plans: your presence here will be required to coordinate with the Commander. Ser Blackwall can assist as required.  Solas, can you provide some magical assistance in perhaps lessening the pressure on our Templars, we discussed it before, and your research was promising. Sera, any way you can sneak up to the bell tower and help in clearing a way to the gates for us? It should be fun.  Cole, I am assuming you can pass on messages back and forth between the command staff here and us once we’re out these, yes? Captain Iron Bull, with me if you please;  your Chargers can report to Seeker Pentaghast in your absence, it will be perimeter duty most likely. Varric, saddle up, now is the chance to see how those new crossbow arms hold up under pressure. Vivienne, I would be grateful for your assistance: lots of blood magic is coming our way apparently. We shall secure the trebuchets on the north and south end of the curtain wall, and see if we can assist in safe evacuation of any civilians who are still out there. Any additional intelligence we gather during our foray shall be beneficial.”

There is no trace of hesitation in her voice. She told them what she wants them to do _exactly_ the way they wanted to hear it, Cullen realizes, and catches Leliana’s thoughtful frown on his right as she materializes almost out of the shadows with a cup of steaming tea that she presses into his hand.

“She’s a natural, isn’t she? Willowbark for your headache,” she says curtly, and before he could reply, she flitters away to where the cages of her great black birds are stacked against the wall. Cullen’s eyes close for a brief second as the bitter, bitter liquid hits hit tongue like scalding fire, and he’s grateful for its distraction. “Prayers also help, I’m told,”Leliana calls back to him before she starts to fiddle with cage locks and talk to one of her agents in a low voice, and he can just hear the sound of the Chantry door slamming shut as The Herald exits with Varric, Iron Bull and Vivienne.

She is right, though. Prayers always helped to find his equilibrium; whether it is, as he thinks in his low moments, merely the rhythm of familiar words and the centering of his mind, or more, he does not dwell on now. The Maker and His prophet better take care of those who are laboring with swords, shields, bows and spells outside the Chantry now to protect the innocent within, and they probably have no need of the mumblings of a former Templar, but every little bit helps. So he drowns the tea in another gulp (one shall not pay attention to the fact that the lingering aftertaste is _almost_ , but not quite, like that of lyrium) and strides to the altar in front. He kneels down at the feet of the Prophet amongst villagers, travelers, diplomats, templars and mages, bowing their heads equally in prayers, and joins their choir of voices. Mother Giselle intones the words aloud, and they follow, voices rising and falling, accentuated with sniffles, coughs, cries of infants and wheezes of old and infirm.

 _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_  
_I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._  
_I shall endure._  
_What you have created, no one can tear asunder._

 _But that’s just it_. Cullen’s thoughts wander, inevitably, as time passes, the words of the Chant are repeated over and over again, like a giant wheel turning, and they all await the return of those sent out to bring news of the enemy and their possible chances of survival. _The system of Circles was torn asunder, the Templar order was torn asunder, the Chantry itself was torn asunder when the sky ripped open and bled green and demons all over Thedas_.  _It seems that all creation is tottering on the brink of something monstrous, and precious few can stand in its way._ He can’t help but remember the words of a play he’s seen in Kirkwall’s old theater many years ago, dragged there by the Champion herself who insisted ‘to beat some culture in you, Templar, even if it hurts’.

_The time is out of joint—O cursèd spite,  
That ever I was born to set it right!_

She certainly tried. Marian Hawke was truly a force of nature, and, not for the first time, Cullen wonders what happened to her. Last he heard, just after he resigned his commission and accepted Cassandra’s offer to become commander of the Inquisition’s forces, the Viscountess of Kirkwall mysteriously disappeared from her city. He hopes that Leliana’s spy network would be able to locate her…if they survive this.

 ** _When_** _we survive this_ , he corrects himself, unbending his knees and straightening, aware of many eyes on him. _Chin up, Rutherford. You are, after all, the Lion of the Inquisition_.

_Lions never show fear. Lions never show how tired they are, how much they’d like to rest their forehead in their hand and massage their temples when the headache strikes. Their hands never tremble or shake, their eyes are always clear and their walk is always slow, measured and purposeful. They don’t show how much they’d like to run out there with nothing but a naked sword in their hands, to protect those who cannot fight against the menace that encircles almost-indefensible Haven now. Generals don’t pull stunts like those anymore; this lion is, apparently, too old and respected for that._

_A symbol._

_Maker damn it, but I’m hardly a symbol._ He shakes his head, almost angry as he paces through the throng of people to the room where normally their council meetings are held, and which is now half-full of refugees as well. _All I am is a veteran ex-Templar who’s trying to atone for all the times when he was not doing the right things._

_And that’s the short end of it._

_I accepted this position because it afforded an opportunity to do something worthwhile with people I could work with, a fresh start after the absolute disaster that was Kirkwall, to escape from the memories of blood magic, fire, red-lyrium-mad Commanders, shrieking abominations and…_

_…cage made of blue crackling energy, mad swirl of sounds and smells, laughter and sighs and moans and pulsing flesh walls slowly closing and..._

_...pain, pain, pain…_

He exhales slowly, leaning on his hands over the war table and is faintly aware that people in the room are staring at him. His knuckles are white against the polished oak and the table creaks slightly.

  _We will not visit those memories again today._

He slowly shakes his head, breathing in and out in the familiar pattern _one-two-three, pause, one, one-two-three, pause, one_ …A faint rumble emanates from his chest on each exhale and he’s completely unaware just how leonine he seems now to all those in the room, the settling sun’s last light across a narrow-slit window enveloping his hair in a gold halo, shoulders rising and falling rhythmically under his fur cloak.

  _I shall endure._

_I always do._

“Commander!” A slightly high-pitched voice he recognizes as that of the boy who saved the Herald at Therinfal’s Redoubt. “You must come.”

“Cole?” He turns to find strange, pale eyes peering at him from under ash-blonde hair. “What news?”

“Pain.” The strange boy tilts his head to the side and Cullen feels icy fingers along his spine. “You both hide it, but it’s always there; for you, longer, but hers is fresh, _and so much_ of it. Makes you stronger, but brittle if harbored unaided. Lions need their packs.” He blinks. “She is coming back, and brings others. Some are wounded.”

“Damn.” Cullen swears and starts moving, even before he realizes it, or before the processes just what he heard. “Mother Giselle!” he bellows as he strides towards the door. “Incoming invalids. Someone open that door and fast!” He sees Cassandra giving orders to the Templars stationed at the entry, sees Blackwall slam down the visor of his helmet and motion soldiers around himself as the great bar lifts and the door opens with a slow creak, letting in a gush of frigid mountain air, acrid smoke and the scent of blood and fire and electricity and…

Cullen stares, hand gripping the pommel of his sword as the figures stumble in, clutching at each other: it’s Lysette, the Templar sister from Denerim, armor dented, helmet missing, supporting the coughing form of the apothecarist Adan. Varric is next, dragging the slender Dalish elf with her stunted magic abilities and love of strange creatures (Minaeve, her name is, he recalls), and then there is the blacksmith, stomping and cursing, carrying  the unconscious Flissa of the tavern in his arms, her face bloody and slack; and the hulking form of the Iron Bull as he shoves, literally _shoves_ the wiry quartermaster Threnn and skinny merchant Seggrit across the threshold with both arms, grunting, his chest heaving and boots red with blood up to his knees. Cullen does not even want to think about _that_.

_When did it get this bad out there?_

“A little help here, Curly!” Varric shouts and he releases Minaeve’s arm, spins around, squints across his crossbow’s aim and fires once, twice, three times in quick succession through the door opening. “Finding Chancellor Roderick was kind of unexpected; need some cover to drag him in, I think.”

_The High Chancellor?_

_Shit_.  Cullen swears mentally and his mind races even as he draws his sword and moves, along with Cassandra and Blackwall and a group of Templars, out the door. _He was supposed to get back to Val Royeaux right after the Breach was closed; he obviously encountered the enemy somewhere enroute and turned back and…_

…and that’s the end of that speculation, obviously, because there’s the cacophony of battle right in front of him, and all his tiredness and pain is washed away as awareness floods him and everything seems crystal clear. Vivienne, arms extended, brows furrowed in concentration and blue lightning erupting from her fingertips and there’s _another_ mage right next to her, one Cullen does not recognize at all, almost as extravagantly dressed as she (albeit the expensive ring velvet and fustian is torn at places and blotched with blood), male, with the fanciest moustache he has ever seen, flourishing his own staff, casting the green glow of protective shimmer around…

…the figure of the Herald who is supporting the sagging form of the High Chancellor with one arm, greatsword, bloody to the hilt, in the other, and three hulking, armor-clad figures ring them, advancing slowly, but inexorably…

“Inquisition!” Cullen hears himself cry and Cassandra picks it up as they surge forward. “With the Herald!”

His headache is forgotten as the familiar reflexes take over. The shield he grabbed from the pile next to the door takes the brunt of a strike aimed at Roderick’s head, and he thrusts his blade into the gap between breastplate and pauldron at the textbook angle, pushing down, so the attacked crushes to the ground before he even realizes what happened. That’s all he has time for, that’s all he needs to have time for, because that opponent is out of fight now: time to pay attention to the others. He yanks his sword out and spins…

 Cassandra slams bodily into the second one circling the Herald’s side, grunting as a white spear of icy air hisses by her ear and coats the enemy’s armor in frost: that was courtesy of Vivienne, he assumes. The Templars make busywork of the third one, but he sees more figures gather at the corner of the marketplace, beyond the burning façade of the inn…

“Get back!” he snarls over his shoulder and sees that the two mages didn’t have to be told twice, with the Templars covering their retreat. Cassandra stops by the Herald’s other side and assesses her with cool eyes.

“Any of that blood yours?” she asks, thrusting her chin towards her side.

“Nothing a decent potion would not fix, albeit we shall tend to His Eminence first. Harritt does good work with armor.” Her voice comes hollow from under her helmet, but the words are clear and crisp, if a bit out of breath. “Let us continue this behind closed doors, if that is all right with everyone.” Roderick lets out a low moan. “I am afraid we lost His Eminence’s entourage but managed to pick up some arcane support on the way.”

“Arcane…Here, Your Eminence, we’ve got you. “  Cullen hoists the sagging Roderick’s left arm on his shoulder and between him and the Herald they manage to turn around and almost-jog to the door. “Ah, you mean the mage.”

“We have met him before,” Roxanne says, breathing just a bit faster than normal. “During our short-lived visit to Redcliffe. “ Cullen tries to recall details of that event from her report, but it’s somewhat hard to concentrate when dragging a semi-conscious Chantry official across the pavement  and expecting enemy arrows in the back any second.  Luckily, Roxanne offers more details. “He was the Tevene warning us about Venatori involvement with our enemy.”

The part of Cullen’s brain that never forgets a name wakes up.

“Dorian Pavus of Tevinter,” he nods, and is somewhat relieved that they are through the threshold and two soldiers slam it shut behind them. “How in the Fade did he get here and what does he want?”

“He knows what’s coming.” Cole appears at Cullen’s elbow, without warning, and takes the weight of the High Chancellor on his narrow shoulders with surprising strength. “He doesn’t want any part of it; corrupted mages, blood and fire, ashes of former glory tasting like bitter herbs in his mouth.” Roderick moans, barely conscious, and Cole stops, a sad little smile forming on his lips. “It’s not the same,” he says, more gently, and Cullen’s head spins a little because for just a second he thought the boy was responding to something the High Chancellor never _actually_ said. “Let us get you to the healers.”

“Cole means we are gaining an ally who knows the enemy and his plans for us.” Roxanne unbuckles her helmet and as it comes off, Cullen can see the dark circles of exhaustion under her eyes.  Cassandra,  Leliana and Josephine gather around them, they form a circle almost by habit, and the inner council of the Inquisition is in session, just like that. “Let me make this brief, as you may get further details via raven, Leliana, from your forward scouts soon anyway; there are still some out there. The mages at Redcliffe are now allied with the Venatori; controlled by them is more precise, I suppose. They are led by a mage called Calpernia; Grand Enchanter Fiona is now a Venatori conscript along with most of the rebel members of the former Circles.” She purses her lips for a second in thought. “The attack is led by someone called The Elder One the Venatori answer to. Also, I am afraid, there is a dragon.”

“A _what_?” Josephine breathes, face going pale, and even Leliana swallows audibly.

“That explains the fires and the rapid deterioration of the situation.” Cullen says, rubbing on his face scar absentmindedly. _A dragon_.  “Have you reached the trebuchets, Herald?”

“We did manage to inflict casualties on the vanguard of the advancing forces before the dragon destroyed the one on the south. The northern one should still be intact.” Roxanne sweeps a few sweat-soaked tendrils of her hair out of her face, slightly awkward because gauntlets are really not made for this purpose. “Also encountered High Chancellor Roderick at the gate; was, in fact, supported by the Tevene mage. He indicated that His Eminence’s coach and entourage was attacked and destroyed by the same beast we saw flying overhead. “ She glances to where the newcomer mage stands, talking to Vivienne and Varric with sweeping gestures; Cullen is somewhat pleased to see that Ser Lysette is hovering nearby, ready for anything, just in case. The Denerim Templar apparently knows how to take initiative when necessary and pays attention to rapidly changing situations, making the right decisions. As far as he is concerned, a field promotion is definitely in order—provided they survive the day.

“Orders, Commander?” Roxanne’s voice is sharp. “If we wait too long, we will be pinned in entirely as the enemy forces move deeper, with the dragon providing cover.”

“We are not in a position to hold out here,” says Leliana slowly. “This is not a fort; the chantry doesn’t even have a moat around it.” She nods towards the nave, packed with people. “Unless we find a way to evacuate, they will kill everyone.”

“The Elder One does not care about your villagers’ life.” Cullen sees the Tevene mage strolling towards them, with Ser Lysette shadowing him, voice modulated and rich. “The only thing is… Damnation, Templar, stop crowding my personal space!” he thunders suddenly, whirling around, and Lysette tenses, hand on her sword…

“Stand _down_!” Roxanne barks suddenly, with the authority of an officer in command, and the ex-Templar’s reflexes work. Lysette’s hand relaxes and she takes two steps back. “He came all the way from Redcliffe to warn us and saved His Eminence from the ruins of his carriage: if he did all that just to get inside the Inquisition, I would say he chose a rather inconvenient timing for it.”

“That will be all, Lieutenant.” Cullen cuts in, and catches a quick glance from Roxanne, grateful for the support . “You may return to your duties with my thanks for your vigilance. The Council will hear what Magister Pavus has to say. “ The words sound way too pretentious even to his own ears, as if they were presiding over a grand table in a chamber full of tapestries and arched windows and this was not quite possibly the end of the entire Inquisition right here… but he can see that it made the right impression on the Tevene from the slightly deeper nod he accords to each of them in turn.

“I see there is no need to formally introduce myself,” Dorian Pavus says, with a slight smile. “My thanks to the Herald for assisting me in my plight to bring word about what awaits you out there.” _Maker’s Breath_ , thinks Cullen, _he uses his words just as fastidiously as she does_. “As I was saying before my somewhat excusable outburst, the Elder One does not bargain, and does not care about lives.” His voice turns bitter. “Just like with the mages of Redcliffe, he takes what he wants.  From you, he wants your Herald; the rest will merely be collateral damage.”

“He does not want me either.” Roxanne’s voice is thoughtful and they all look at her. “What he wants is _this_.” She lifts her left hand; the Mark is a faint green pulse under the leather of her gauntlet’s palm. “It should not be a coincidence that this happens right as we close the Breach. I just wish we knew more.” Her gaze rests on the Tevene. “Any ideas from you, _magister_?”

“You took the Templars from his grasp.” Dorian says, then gives a little laugh and shakes his head. “Of course he would want you for that alone.” He waves a hand. “That title is not mine to bear, by the way; if you must use titles of your Southern lands, Messere Pavus will do quite nicely, thank you. For that, and for saving me there at the gates, too, I mean.” he adds, as if he remembers something belatedly. “An absolutely brilliant performance with those trebuchets, by the way: very promising, those landslides.”

“Of course,” Roxanne nods, cool and polite, as if they were discussing weather. “It was entirely…”

“Wait.” Cullen hears himself saying, slightly impatient. The thought forms in his mind, clear and crisp, despite the headache, the chaos of sobs, pain and slowly encroaching scent of smoke from outside. Despite the certainty growing in his mind about their situation. Or perhaps because of it. “The trebuchet on the north side is still operational, you said?” Roxanne nods. “We could make another landslide,” he continues, and sees understanding dawning in her eyes as she takes a step backwards.

“The enemy is right here; they already overran us,” she says, more for the sake of the rest of the Council than for Cullen. He knows that she _knows:_ she has a quick mind, suited for far-reaching plans and strategies, able to see the wheels behind the wheels and implications behind actions.

 _She would have made such a brilliant officer_ , Cullen thinks. _Definitely high command_. _Her men would have followed her everywhere, to the death, even…_

 _And that’s just it._ It echoes in his mind like the toll of the Chantry bell, deep, resonant and full of finality.

_Such a waste._

_“_ To drop the mountain on them means to bury ourselves.” Roxanne makes that snorting sound that Cullen knows means she’s amused, and spells it out, slow and clear. “To bury Haven.”

“Oh, that’s just unacceptable,” the Tevene says, strolling over, arm dramatically up in the air. His dashing smile fully deployed in Roxanne’s direction, he takes her gauntleted hand and bows over it. “That would be such a waste of beauty and grace,” another bow, “not to mention fashion and dashing style! Pish! To think that I came all the way here just for you to drop rocks on my head!”

Cullen feels something heavy, tinged with red threatening to burst from his chest at that, even though Dorian’s words echo his feelings with eerie precision at that moment.   _Or maybe exactly because of that,_ a little voice inside of his head whispers. He finds himself face-to-face with the mage, stepping between him and Roxanne without even realizing it. He’s not sure how that happened: his voice drops to a low growl as he locks eyes with the other man ( _he has no right to be so familiar with her, so disrespectful, no right, no right,_ the little voice whispers) .

“Would you rather we submit, Tevene?” he snarls, hands balled into fists, head lowered; he sees, form the corner of his eyes, Leliana’s surprised face at his outburst. “Have the Elder One kill us, one by one?”

“You are so eager to die, then, _Commander_?” the mage retorts, chin thrust forward defiantly.  Apparently he knows more about him than it is possible during such a short acquaintance, because he cocks his head to the side and continues. “You know, for a Templar, you think like a blood mage, really.”

“ _Enough_.” Again that whip-cracking tone of command from Roxanne, and Cullen sees thunder clouds in her Fade-green eyes. “Both of you. This is a waste of…”

“There is a way.” The new voice is barely more than a whisper: they all stare as High Chancellor Roderick, chest and right leg heavily bandaged and face bearing a sickly pallor, limps up to them, leaning on Cole and lowers himself heavily in an empty chair none of them thought to sit on. “There’s a mountain path, a secret path. The people can…” He stops, as a heavy cough shakes his body, accompanied by horrible wet sounds coming from his chest. Cullen knows that sound well, heard it enough from wounded comrades through the years to know instantly that, barring miracles, Roderick does not have long to live.

“No, let me…” The Chancellor waves off Leliana with a small vial in her hand. “Don’t waste your healing on me, Sister Nightingale, there’s no time.  Herald… listen to me.” His gaze is locked on Roxanne, as she steps closer to him, kneeling by the chair. Cullen remembers how Roderick treated her with barely veiled distrust and almost-open hostility from the very second she emerged from the Fade, and marvels at the change of heart as the old man clutches at Roxanne’s shoulder. “An old path, overgrown… almost hidden, leading out of the canyon and above the Temple. She must have…shown me. Our Lady must have shown me so I could…tell you. To Her Herald.”

“Your Eminence?” her voice is surprisingly gentle, brows furrowed in concentration as she tries to follow the old man’s whispering. “Are you saying you know an escape route?”

“It was all overgrown when I found it…” Roderick’s breath wheezes out of his chest with the same wetness that worried Cullen earlier. “Just like in the poem: _And ah, how hard it is to say just what/ this wild and rough and stubborn woodland was,/the very thought of which renews my fear!/So bitter ’t is, that death is little worse/but of the good to treat which there I found/I ’ll speak of what I else discovered there.”_ He gives a weak laugh.

“He’s raving; we should…” The Tevene shakes his head impatiently, but Cullen holds up a hand, silencing him. His heart beats wildly in his chest as he hears Roderick slowly recount his pilgrimage on a long-gone summer day, and how he found the hidden path he now is willing to guide them to. He hears him, and hope rekindles in his heart slowly, for all of those around him, for all of those in the Chantry; for the entire Inquisition; for _his people_.

There is a way to save all of them; there’s a way to strike a blow at their enemy; if only…

“Thank you, Your Eminence.” Roxanne’s  voice is gentle as she straightens and bows her head to the old man; but there’s steel in it as she turns and regards him. “Commander: do you think it would work?”

“If he shows us the path…” Honesty is what he needs now; also, more willowbark tea that they don’t have time for, but he shoves that thought aside mercilessly and nods, reluctantly. “Possibly. Yes.”

Roxanne makes a fist and takes a deep breath: yet again, she seems impossibly young for the enormity of what is thrust upon her and Cullen suddenly wants nothing more than reach out, lay his hand on her shoulder and reassure her that it all will be all right.

“That is good enough.” She lowers her voice and steps slightly closer: Cullen can smell the blood and smoke on her armor. “Cullen,” she says his name, in a voice raspy from exhaustion, inhaled smoke and emotions she normally keeps in check so rigidly. “Get them out of here. Please.” There is urgency in her words and she grips his arm, with gauntleted fingers squeezing so he can feel it to the bone despite the armor. Her eyes are enormous. “Keep our people safe.”

 _Our people_. It reverberates inside of him, down to his toes and up to the crown of his head and he hears the distant roar of his blood surging in his veins.

 _Our people_ , he hears, as she names them hers, and his, and finds that it’s slightly hard to breathe and his heart is in his throat with an ache like a knife wound right through it.

  _Our people_ , she said, as if...

_What was it the strange boy said?_

_Lions need their packs…_

 “I need volunteers for the trebuchet run.” As he looks up, feeling dizzy, he finds that she already moved away. He can still feel every single point on his arm where her fingers touched him, through leather and metal, and his skin tingles. Her back is to him now, ramrod straight, proud, unbending.   “I cannot ask anyone not willing…”

“You have me.” Cassandra says, not even waiting for Roxanne to finish, and Varric is next, and Solas just steps out and stands next to her, glaring at the others as if to dare anyone to question his right to be there when it all comes down…

“Thank you,” Roxanne says somewhat thickly. “The rest of you, please aid the Council in whatever way necessary until…” she pauses for a second and her eyes find his, luminous and bright, and so full of life and faith he has to blink for a second, “until we return.”

_Damn it._

_This is why command is a burden, not an honor, Cullen_ , he hears the voice of Greagoir, from decades away. “ _You will understand one day, my boy_.  _You will understand_ _when you make decisions that send great people, excellent people, people who should live full and productive and happy lives to certain death in order to save the innocent lives of those who did not choose the path of the sword and danger_.”

 _Oh, I understand it perfectly now, old man, believe me_ , Cullen thinks as he barks short, sharp commands, organizes a marching order out of the chaos that erupts in the chantry almost immediately after he raises his voice first, and watches the Tevene mage aid the High Chancellor to lead their first group to the small side door opening to a seemingly unpassable thicket of brushes and rock. _I understand it just fine…but have not the luxury to dwell on it until we are out of here._

And he manages to shove away that last moment of eye contact, firmly and decisively under layers of discipline and duty, manages not to think about it at all, not until hours later Cassandra, Varric an Solas reach their makeshift camp, safely above the treelines and tell the stunned council how the Herald stayed behind to finish the mission after ordering them to retreat from the enormous red beast and its rider that swooped down on them just when they almost accomplished their task.

“I don’t know, Cullen,” Cassandra says, hands clasped behind her back, staring up to the sky as they stand at the edge of the camp, peering into the darkness. “I’m sorry. She ordered us to run, and stood there with her sword drawn, facing that thing down.” She makes a short, sharp laugh. “As if she could… But you know that voice she uses when…”

“I do.” Cullen nods, and they continue to peer down to the darkness. The mountain just came down on Haven minutes after those three stumbled into the camp, right on cue after Sera sent up the signal flare he commanded, because that was the plan, damn it, and it should be followed even when there was almost no chance of succeeding. But the mountain came down, and they survived, and the enemy is nowhere to be seen, and now there is waiting, and they still talk about her in present tense.

They have to.

“I should have stayed with her.” Cassandra says at last.

“Your duty to the Inquisition…” Cullen starts, and she turns on him with lightning in her eyes and balled fists and takes a deep breath, presumably to tell him, in her usual blunt style, what he can do with the Inquisition, when…

“Idiots.” Varric’s mumbling halts them both as he hurries past them, Bianca and a small pack slung on his shoulders. “When you two idiots finish blaming each other, maybe you should organize some search parties. She is out there, the poor kid, and you know she can’t light a fire on her own, Seeker, we always had to do it for her, she doesn’t know anything about camping in the wilds, and this snow is too wet up here, and there are _wolves…”_ The rest of his monologue dies away with the wind as he continues to trudge down the mountainside and around a huge boulder, his stocky frame sinking into the snow almost to the thighs.

“Maker.” Cullen runs a hand through his hair, feeling like he just has been chewed out by his drill instructor back at Kinloch Hold as an apprentice Templar. “Of course. Search parties. Right.”

And Cassandra turns, her cheeks and eyes slightly red, probably from the constant, buffeting wind, and yells for volunteers for search parties to find the Herald, and someone hands Cullen a torch, and he soon overtakes Varric with his much longer strides.

“Forgot the torch,” he says as he aligns his steps with his, and Varric snorts.

“Curly, you are an idiot. Dwarf here? Bred for generations to see in big underground caves, almost no light? I mean I know I’m a surfacer now, but the abilities don’t just wither away from seeing the sun.” He slows down a bit and sighs. “It’s all right, I am rambling. Just… don’t’ want to screw this one up, you know?”

“You can say that again,” Cullen says curtly, and they trudge along in silence for a while, Cullen lifting the torch every now and then to peer through the darkness.

“Kid is brilliant.” Varric starts talking after a while, snow crunching under his booted feet. “Absolutely brilliant, recites poetry and the Chant and old history and legends, lethal with that sword and not bad at hand-to-hand, a born leader too, men follow her as if she was I don’t know, made of candy, but can’t light a fire for shit. Can’t cut wood, gut prey, make anything edible either, burned the bottom of the pot boiling water once. And no sense of direction at all, did you know that?” Cullen grunts: no, he had no idea, but the cold is getting to him slowly, and there’s snow in his boots, and if he feels like this, he can’t even imagine how Roxanne is now. “Turned us around twice up at Lake Luthias while looking for a rift the locals told us about. She could sense it all right through her mark, but navigating the countryside… Maker, but she was a good sport about it. ‘It is merely a proof that the Maker intends us to be humble,’ she said and grinned that wide grin of hers that can light up a whole room, you know? Just like running around with Prince Vael, I swear.” He stops and pats his pockets down frantically. “That reminds me:  firesteel…right. Belt pouch. Okay, we can go.”

Cullen wants to tell him to slow down, to do this right, to stick to the path they followed here and then widen it in a gentle arch the way it _needs_ to be done, that surely she should be able to, at least, see the abandoned campfires they lit on the way for stragglers, but he can’t get a word out; his throat is tight, and the wind is strong and has needles of ice in it now, and faintly he can hear howling…

“She asked about you, you know,” Varric says suddenly, after they walk a ways. “About your background, and what you did before the Inquisition, and how we knew each other. That kind of thing.”  

“What?” Cullen hears himself say, a bit louder than necessary. “That’s…Why would she… I mean… “ He rubs his neck. “Why would she ask you, she could have just come and ask me, it’s not that I…”

“Curly, you have _no_ idea just how intimidating you are, have you?” Varric asks with a little laugh. “Commander of the sodding Inquisition, Lion of Ferelden, former Knight Commander of Kirkwall, all of that? No, she didn’t just walk up and ask you, she’s too well-bred and raised right and wanted to make sure you didn’t think she was just a fraud, a girl playing with swords because she had no other things to do or something, not taking this whole thing seriously enough…”

“Seriously enough?” Cullen is shouting now, and not exactly sure why. “ _Seriously enough_? She can’t sleep at night and walks all over the place and goes to the chantry to work on her garden to get the images of demons and whatever else she has to butcher in the name of the bloody Inquisition on a weekly basis out of her head! Before that, she worked her knuckles raw on doing laundry she had no idea how to do and I have no idea how she coped _before_ that. She should be in a comfortable garrison posting getting groomed for high command somewhere in Orlais and not running around with the likes of us, or asking about the past of washed-out Templars who…” He trails off, aware that he’s standing in the middle of nowhere on a Cliffside, hands balled into fists, shouting at a dwarf who is staring at him with open mouth.

“You know,” Varric says after they both just breathe in silence a little bit and Cullen regains enough of his equilibrium that he feels moderately ashamed of losing his temper this bad, “I really don’t want to be one of your recruits. By all Her wet frocks , if you…” He cuts off sharply, and tilts his head to the side. “Wait. Heard that?”

“Heard what…?” Cullen starts to say, but Varric is already moving, down the slope, towards a copse of firs that hang over a precipice, and over the increasing howl of the winds Cullen can now make something out as well, and…

 _Of course she’d be singing a Chantry hymn_ , he thinks as he starts to run, stumbling at first but then righting himself, passing Varric easily despite the deepening snow, _that’s just exactly what she’d do instead of trying to make a fire, what in the Fade is she thinking, that maybe that keeps her warm…_ and then he’s skidding to a halt where a snow-sodden heap of dark-stained armor and leather huddles below the low-hung branches of a fir tree. She is on her knees, leaning on her sword she used as a cane, apparently, and there’s frost at the end of her eyelashes as she blinks up at him, the syllables of her song dying in her throat.

“She’s here!” Cullen yells back towards Varric, sticks the torch straight into the snow and scoops Roxanne up in his arms. “Thank the Maker!” His throat goes tight again; she is sodding wet and shivering.

“Oh.” She sighs; her voice cracks a bit and her head lolls to the side, thudding against his chest. “I am sorry; but you were yelling…”

“What?” he says incredulously, more struck by the fact that she’s still using correct syntax and grammar than what she says… then it hits him: _she heard me and Varric arguing from a distance, and started singing as a response so we hear her_.

 _Maker_.

He yanks at his cloak, almost angrily, so the clasp breaks and disappears into the snow, but he does not care, as he wraps the fur and leather securely around Roxanne and tucks it under her chin, hoping it will be enough to keep her warm until they reach back to the warmth of their campfires and tents. He can feel her shake in her entire body, but her heartbeat is steady against his own and he thinks she, understandably, finally, has passed out.

“Can’t sodding believe it!” Varric  reaches them then, shaking his head, but grinning now. “There’s only one other person in Thedas who could possibly get caught by singing the _Lament of Andraste_ in a snowstorm, and he’s definitely _not_ here—but even he wouldn’t do it in _Middle Alamarric_. Bloody Fade, Herald, you made it!”

Cullen carries her all the way back to camp, soon accompanied by other searchers, Cassandra, new light shining in her eyes and Solas, solemn and taciturn but with head held high, amongst them, and just after entrusting her to Mother Giselle’s tender but firm care, and seeing the Reverend Mother and her surviving sisters surround her and start the tedious process of returning life and warmth into her limbs, thinks about what Varric said.

“Sister Nightingale?” he asks Leliana as they sit by one of the fires, next to her precious ravens’ boxes stacked high and listening to the birds make soft, sleepy complaining noises. “Do you know _The Lament of Andraste?_ ”

“Hmm?” Leliana asks lazily; her chin is in her palm and she pokes at the fire with a stick. “Yes, of course: not very popular these days, a bit obscure, but…why?”

“It’s what she was singing when we found her.” Cullen says simply. Leliana makes a humming sound and gives a thoughtful nod.

“Fitting,” she says. “The Herald of Andraste singing the song of Our Lady and her salvation of mankind. Here, my Middle Alamarric is a bit rusty, but it’s close enough that you’ll get the gist of it.” She clears her throat delicately. “Let me see…”

_Love me broughte_

_And love me wroughte_

_Man, to be thy fere_

_Love me fedde_

_And love me ledde_

_And love me lette here_

 

_Love me slou_

_And love me drou_

_And love me layde on bere_

_Love is my pes_

_For love I ches_

_Man to buyen dere_

 

_Ne dred thee nought_

_I have thee sought_

_Bothen day and night_

_To haven thee_

_Well is me_

_I have thee wonnen in fight_

Leliana ‘s voice, of course, is trained and strong, and not at all like the halting, wind-choked, exhausted sound that he and Varric picked up on that mountainside, but Cullen nevertheless can’t _not_ hear it that way—perhaps ever again.

 _Andraste_ , he thinks, as he closes his eyes and prays, _thank you for leading her back to us_. _To her people, bought dear and won in fight._

_We will keep her safe._

_I will keep her safe._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **On quotes: I had fun digging these up.**  
>   
>   
> 
> 1\. _‘Maker, my enemies are abundant ‘_ and _‘Maker, though the darkness comes upon me’_ are from the Chant of Light, Canticle of Trials.  
>  2\. _‘The time is out of joint’_ is from the famous play of _Hamlet_ , by William Shakespeare; since in my previous story arc my Hawke loves theater, this was very fitting.  
> 3\. _And ah, how hard it is to say just what/ this wild and rough and stubborn woodland was’_ —the poem Roderick quotes is the _Divine Comedy_ by Dante Alighieri, Volume 1, Inferno, Canto 1, translated into English by William Langdon. As far as overgrown paths go, that one is pretty famous, and when I was listening to the cutscene in-game, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that there was an allusion there—Roderick is having a major come-to-Andraste moment right there, after all.  
>  4\. And, finally, the song _Love Me Broughte_ : most people know this one form the superb rendition of the lovely Medieval Baebes, but originally this is a late-14th century hymn from the collected miscellaneous scribblings of a gent called John Grimestone, and is a song about Christ and His sacrifice. As Andraste, by the writers’ admission, is a clear parallel from Thedas, this did not seem like a far-fetched borrowing here.


End file.
